


Nothing Serious

by scootcommander



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Marvel, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Corpses, First Meetings, Ghouls, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Paranormal Investigators, Swearing, Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scootcommander/pseuds/scootcommander
Summary: Agent Barnes and Agent Barton get assigned to investigate a report from the Magnus Institute.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 22
Kudos: 39





	1. the mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squadrickchestopher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Magnus Archives - Episode One: Angler Fish](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/730887) by Jonathon Sims. 



> Happy Birthday Squaddy!! Thank you for encouraging me to write again.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/) for being my beta.

“...so that’s it.”

Clint looks up at the handler with disbelief written on his features. He pushes the photograph across the polished steel table. “This is a picture.”

“Right.” The handler places one finger on the border of the paper and slides it back across the table to Clint pointedly. “That’s it.”

His eyes flick up to look at her across the space, narrowing when she gives up no more information. “I haven’t mastered mind reading yet so I’m going to need more.”

“That’s the mission. Figure out what this is and come back alive.”

Clint snorts. “You brought me to the middle of nowhere for a meeting in a secretive underground bunker laboratory to show me a picture?”

The handler straightens, smoothing her hands over her neat pencil skirt before she levels Clint with a steely gaze. “Your ranged weapons skills make you the best candidate for the job. So far there have been three reported disappearances related to this. We assume there are more. We’re pairing you with Agent Barnes but he’ll have to meet you there as he is finishing up on another mission.”

Clint’s blood runs chill at the name. Agent Barnes is rumored to be incredibly hot, but Clint has never laid eyes on him. “You think I need help from a guy with racoon eyes?” 

“Agent Barton, please.” The handler sounds almost like an exasperated mother trying to convince her child that broccoli was not, in fact, created by the devil and doesn’t actually taste as bad as assumed. That makes Clint feel victorious. It’s the small things.

His eyes return to the photograph. There’s barely anything visible. The blacks have been clipped and lost much of their detail. The matte paper doesn’t help. It’s worn, edges soft with handling, and one corner is missing. “You’d think for a super secret organization you could afford to print a new one.” He finally picks up the image and that’s when he can see her cause for concern. The image shows a normal looking alleyway, stairs up to the fire escape barely discernible in the darkness, but as he looks closer, coming out of the alley, Clint can see what looks like a long, thin hand. “What the fuck?” He asks, looking up at the handler. 

“Precisely. So will you take the job?” 

He stares at the outline of the hand again and nods. “Sure. I haven’t been to Ireland recently.”

“It’s in Scotland.”

“Yeah, sure, right. I was just testing you.” 

The handler bites her inner lip to keep from rolling her eyes as she looks at Agent Barton. “Your transport is waiting, then.”

Clint looks up, scratching a hand along his jaw. “Wait, what? Shit. I have a pizza coming in twenty minutes. Can we wait?”

“There’s no way you could have ordered a pizza here.” She confirms harshly. Her eyes cut through the darkness of the room as a warning shot to Clint. There’s no more time for jokes.

“Worth a shot.” Clint shrugs before pocketing the photograph. “Yeah, okay, fine, let’s go to Ireland.”

***

The dark car speeds through the dark night and Clint can’t help but notice how dark this whole city feels. Rain drips down the windows as he cranes his head to look around at what he can see, though admittedly, it’s not much. Dim bulbs hang over garages and shops. Edinburgh. Been awhile since he’s been here. Rubbing at his scruff, Clint yawns and leans back against the seat. “Can’t see shit.” He mumbles, leaning to try again like now that he’s given the night a hard time, the moon might try a little harder to help him out. 

“Nighttime, sir. We’ll be to your hotel shortly.” The driver tells him for the third time. 

Clint thunks his head against the seat in annoyance. Agent Barnes should be there when he arrives and he just wants to _see_ the dude. There’s no way he’s worth the hype the agency rumor mill says he is. And there’s no way he took this willingly. A paranormal investigation to figure out a hand. Clint had only taken this one because of the promise of Barnes. Well, that and what the fuck is a skinny ghost hand doing reaching out of an alleyway. That’s weird. But the main draw is Barnes. 

The car pulls around a curve to a stone road. “Here we are. Cock and Bull Inn.”

Clint’s eyebrows go up. “The what?” He asks, a devilishly amused smile crossing his lips. This is going to be so good. He pushes out of the car and squints up at the sign. Sure enough. 

“Sir, your bag.”

“Cool. Thanks dude.” Clint slings the bag over his shoulder. His casual posture lends to covering the fact that his eyes are scanning his surroundings. More inky blackness. And fog. The cloud cover mattes the night like in the photograph. The street they’re on is at least a forty degree angle, steeper than Clint would have imagined was safe to park a car but the driver seems not to care much. He watches the car take off in the fog before he ducks inside, eager to be out of the rain. Outside smells weirdly of fish anyway. There’s a chill on the back of his neck he can’t quite identify. Probably just Agent Barnes looking at him through a sniper scope.

The hotel is silent, a clerk propped up on an elbow at the front desk. There’s a bar area off to the side where one lonely soul sits with a half drunk pint. All in all, a deserted little place. Perfect for going unnoticed. Clint raps on the desk. Up close, he notices just how stunning this man is and takes a moment to admire the cut of his jaw, the girth of his shoulders. Could be a rugby player. Or wear a kilt. Clint’s mind almost runs away from him. “Don’t mean to interrupt your sleep, handsome, but can I get the key for seven?”

The clerk blinks awake. His eyes go wide and he blinks a few times at Clint. “Sorry. Must’ve dozed. Welcome to Cock and Bull. Do you have a reservation?”

“Number seven. Name’s Ron…” Clint narrows his eyes. Shit. What was the surname he was given? The handler had said it so damn fast when she was explaining things as she shoved him in a copter. “Ron Weas… Nope. Ron Hunter. Ron Wes Hunter. Mhm. That’s me.”

“Ron Hunter. Ah yes. Room seven. Looks like your partner has already arrived so you’ll just get the one key.” The clerk hands over a towel, a key, and a credit for the bar. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Oh, don’t you worry your cock or your bull. I’m sure I will.” He winks and pats the counter before heading for the stairs. His face falls immediately after he turns away. That was bad. Even for him. So many cock jokes and that’s what he went for? _Shit, Barton, losing your edge. Gotta get out more._ He’ll have to try again. That clerk was too cute not to try again.

The second floor has rooms one through five so Clint starts up another flight of stairs with a roll of his eyes. So much effort. Thankfully the room is just to the right when he makes it to the top. Finally taking note of the key, Clint snorts. This thing looks ancient. He pops it in the lock and gives it a twist, expecting the door to open. Nothing happens. He gives a shove but again, nothing. Taking the key all the way out, he tries again, twisting it back and forth but never hearing a click. “Well, hell…” He sighs, exasperated. He’s going to have to _fuckin’ knock_. Raising a hand to the wood, he hesitates. Clint knows he’s a disaster but it’s not the first thing he likes to announce about himself. Well, at least not always and certainly not now. One more try. He fumbles with the key in the dim light of the hallway. Third time’s a charm. This time he turns the key and hears a click but before he can touch the knob, the door swings open.

They were right. Clint hates that they were right. But they were so right. Before him is a statue of a man: scruffy beard, shoulder length dark hair, haunted eyes, silver arm. The pick up lines he was writing in his head for tomorrow’s interaction with the hot clerk disappear. Barnes’ eyes squint in the dark as he analyzes Clint, giving him a once over that makes Clint puff his chest a bit more. Those intense blues are the stuff of legend. “Ron.”

Clint scrambles for half a second. “Jim.” Agent Barnes looks incredibly annoyed as he turns back into the room, but the name is enough for entrance. “Glad you didn’t make me guess a password too.” Clint steps into the room and drops his bag inside the door. A shock jumps through his chest when he catches an unobserved second to pass his eyes over the ass of the man he’s only heard about. 

“You’re late.” Barnes states as he takes up his position by the window again. 

“Not my fault. There were a lot of stairs.” He kicks the duffle in a little farther and shuts the door behind him. The room is smaller than he thought, but at least there’s a coffee maker. “Hey where’s-”

“Messed up the room assignment.” Barnes growls from where he’s perched by the window, nearly disappearing in the fabric of the curtains as he keeps his eyes on the street below. “Only one bed. You can take the couch.”

Clint wrinkles his nose at the idea as he looks at the incredibly lumpy couch. “No way I’m sleeping on that couch for a week. Either you can learn to share the bed or _you_ can sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t share beds.” Barnes murmurs, pulling out a meter and making note of the readings. Harder now that the night has gotten cold, but he swears that each time a human passes, the temperature drops. It had when Agent Barton arrived but nothing has changed since. 

Mockingly mouthing Barnes’ words behind his back in the dim light, Clint kicks his bag to the side of the couch. What a grump. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing serious, if that’s what you’re asking.” Barnes replies as he watches people pass the alleyway. No one seems to walk on that side of the street, and he’s not seen anyone go in or come out all day.

Cline collapses on the couch and his eyes narrow when he sees the small lights. “Are you using a thermal monocular? That’s serious.”

“I’ve been taking temperature readings every half hour.” His voice is low, dark like the night. 

“Find anything?” Clint asks, more interested in the fact that Barnes seems all over this investigation and he might not need to actually be the one keeping logs this time. Not that he tends to keep good logs anyway. Or at all. It’s fine. He nears Barnes to get a look at what he’s using. “Doesn’t that machine beep when it senses something?”

Agent Barnes doesn’t look up as Barton approaches. “At least one of us is doing something.” 

Clint backs up and rolls his eyes. “I just got in from a Transatlantic flight. Like what was I meant to do?”

“Get a scotch and stay out of my way.” Barnes watches the fog intently, looking across the street at the alleyway. 

“There’s a great Scotch downstairs at the desk.” Clint informs him. Even as he talks about how hot someone else is, Clint can’t keep his eyes off Barnes. From the great ass to the casual way he pushes his dark hair out of his face with his whole hand, every rumor was true. 

Barnes merely raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should go sleep in his bed.” 

Clint blinks, and then blinks again, his brain trying to process what he just heard. Snarky. Alright, this is how their week is going to be. This might be more fun than he thought. “I could bring him here. Two versus one means I get the bed.”

Barnes only looks annoyed. “Did you bring the EMF? Handler said she was going to send it with you.”

“You know we can’t do this from up here. The range is only going to pick up fields in this room.” Clint explains as he digs around for the electromagnetic field detector. He’s sure he tossed it in here somewhere. As another minute passes without finding it, Clint’s mind starts a string of swear words. No way he forgot it. Then his hand brushes by the plastic and he wraps around - oh no, that’s definitely not it. 

Barnes looks over at Barton, his eyes narrowing as more time passes. “You _did_ bring it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, just cool your jets. It’s here somewhere.” Giving another stab around his bag, Clint finally feels the small hard plastic. “Got it!” He beams triumphantly and hands the device over to Barnes. 

“Ready to go to the alleyway?”

“I just… what? Not tonight, no.” Clint all but whines. “C’mon man. Transatlantic flight.” He points to his own chest as if reminding Barnes was going to change his mind. “Tomorrow?”

“I’m going. We’ve got a job to do.” Barnes grabs his bag and his coat. Both black of course. “I’ll stab you if I come back and you’re on that bed.”

“Don’t make promises you won’t keep.” 

“I don’t.” Barnes smirks and sweeps out of the room, purposefully locking the door behind him as loudly as possible.


	2. the offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/) for being my beta.

Two days later and Clint is tired of sleeping on the couch but the wings from The Boozy Cow are making the investigation better. “I’m telling you. That wings place is great. You should have some.” Clint repeats his earlier offer but Barnes won’t come away from that damn window. If he’s not out walking, he’s sitting on the sill. 

“We should try tonight. To go in the alley. We’ve done the canvassing and got the reports.” Barnes lowers the camera he’s been using to watch the alleyway. No movement so far. “It’s time.”

Clint sighs, and rolls his eyes. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he digs out the ghost box. “We can use this.”

“When was that last statement from? The one that sent us here.” Barnes peels away from the window and comes to take up the other chair at the table, eyes avoiding Barton and focusing instead on the manilla folder with the big green stamp of The Magnus Institute. 

“Year? Mmmm…” Clint makes a grabby hand towards the file. 

Barnes looks up in disgust at the honey barbecue on his fingertips. “I can read, Barton.”

“You can? Here this whole time I honestly wasn’t sure since you haven’t done anything but look at the thermometer.” Clint is buying himself time as he tries to remember the briefing. “I think it’s 2010.”

“2012.” Barnes corrects before he looks up. “Do you pay attention to anything?”

“Only the important things. Like the fact that you definitely were checking out the Scot downstairs after I mentioned bringing him to bed.” He lifts another chicken wing to his mouth to cover his smile. 

Barnes grits his teeth. “He’s a potential suspect. I was not checking him out. I was investigating him.”

“Sure. Of course Barnaby.”

Quicker than a flash, Barnes has a knife out, pointed right at Clint. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

And if he was smarter, Clint would be scared. Clint would be hands up, backing off, but instead he’s grinning like a feral cat. His eyes are alight at the danger. “Okay, so not into nicknames. You gonna tell me your first name then? A trade: yours for mine.”

“Clinton.”

“No, that’s - hey, wait.” Clint pouts in disappointment when he recognizes his name. “Why do you know that? Do you have a super secret fuck file?” He points a chicken wing at Barnes. “C’mon. I’m in it, huh? Just admit it.”

The turn around on this guy is astounding. Barnes’ stare is almost more disarming than his threat. “Even if I did, you wouldn’t be in it.”

Clint wilts momentarily. “I don’t believe that.” He throws the wing into the bag with a huff. “Not for a second. You’re locked up here, in Scotland, with arguably the fourth hottest - okay maybe fifth hottest - agent, I bring you good coffee, and I speak Italian. Totally fuck worthy.”

And if Barnes’ eyes linger a little too long on the muscles of Clint’s arms, he’d never say he could be sure. “I’m done with this.” He snatches the ghost box off the table. “I’m going for a walk.”

Clint picks up another wing. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I’ll be back before you can figure out how to lock the door.”

“Hey-” But the door slams and Clint’s left alone in the room. 

***

Clint finally gets the door locked behind him and Barnes isn’t back yet. Take that, grumpy raccoon. Though, if he’s honest, he’s not sure why everyone says that. Sure, he looks tired, like, always. And the hair in his eyes that he thinks is so cool doesn’t dispel the trash panda thing. But still. Raccoon isn’t quite right. The night is frigid as Clint steps out, looking side to side for Barnes in case his shadowy self has frozen to the ground somewhere. When there’s no one to be seen, Clint heads over to the alleyway. Barnes has been watching this place night and day but nothing has been seen. He looks down the street again to make sure a car isn’t coming in the fog before crossing. That’s the last thing he needs: Barnes laughing at him while he lays in a hospital bed. Only a few steps gets him across. 

“Can I have a cigarette?” 

Clint squints in the fog. There’s a figure standing in the narrow alleyway. If pressed, Clint would guess it’s a man but there isn’t enough visibility to be sure. Barnes had made a fuss about how sometimes the light goes in and out, making visibility difficult for periods of time. This was one of those. Somewhere there’s a staircase that leads up into the back of the alley, but they hadn’t been able to see quite where. Now, looking right up at it, Clint swears he sees a door at the top. That chill on the back of his neck he felt the first night is back, crawling down his spine with a thousand icy feet. The figure in front of him seems to sway slightly where it stands a few steps back from the street in the mouth of the buildings, just barely on the edge of darkness. 

“Can I have a cigarette?” The figure asks again. 

“Don’t have one. Sorry.” The more Clint tries to look at the figure, the more it seems to blend like wet paint into the background with no discernable features. His eyes go up to the light above them, begging for just a second of light from the fixture but it stays off. “Do you need help? Maybe I can buy you dinner. Do you like fish and chips? Great place called Gorgies. Open until midnight.”

The figure’s only movement is the slight swaying. Their face remains expressionless, just like the voice. No intonation. No characterization. Barnes wouldn’t be happy with that assessment so Clint tries to hone in on anything, only to find a completely neutral… person. It’s like watching a figure underwater, like he’s moving ever so slightly with an ebb and flow of the tide. Maybe he’s just inebriated. “Can I have a cigarette?” 

That cold chill is unbearable now and Clint pulls his coat around him. Shaking his head at the figure, he continues down the street to look for Barnes. It’s only a few minutes later when he spots the stature he’s come to know as Barnes at the end of the alley. “Find anything?”

Barnes looks up. Even his normally blue eyes look dark in this place. “You made it out of the room.”

“I’m lazy, Barnes, not incompetent.” 

“Ah, yes, correct, says the man who has done nothing but find all the local places to eat while we’re supposed to be investigating a paranormal photographic phenomenon.” 

“Hey,” Clint starts, his brow furrowing. “I was hired for this assignment, just like you.”

“Except you don’t do anything like me. You eat chicken wings and whine about sleeping on the couch and drink so much coffee I don’t know how you aren’t pissing all the time.” Barnes accuses with a harsh stare. He pushes his hair back from his face with his hand and for the first time, Clint wishes the motion wasn’t so damn sexy. “Why did they send you, Barton? Aren’t you supposed to be some tactical expert?”

“I am!” He insists, frustrated that he now feels like a ridiculed child trying to defend himself. “I’m the only one that’s even seen anything in that damn alley you’re so intent on watching!”

Barnes reels back. “What did you see?” He demands. 

Clint’s jaw clamps down as he debates telling Barnes. “Figure. Asking me for a cigarette.”

“Anything about the figure? Or was it just a person, Barton?” Barnes demands, getting closer to his face. 

As he nears, Clint burns. For half a second, he thinks about pushing Barnes against the brick wall and kissing the life out of him. “Their face was all sunken and their… mouth didn’t move.” The realization dawns on him and his eyes grow wide. 

“What did you say?”

“Barnes, they asked me for a cigarette three times and their mouth didn’t move.” The chill returns and Clint knows this time, it isn’t the weather. “Something is in that alleyway.”

“I knew it.” Barnes grabs Clint’s shoulders and shakes him. He almost looks light, and the excitement almost makes Clint laugh. Without waiting for Clint, Barnes turns and heads back towards the hotel and the alleyway. “We need cigarettes.” He murmurs, patting down his pockets. There’s got to be an old pack in this jacket somewhere. Just one. That’s all they need. But by the time they get back to where Clint saw the figure, the alleyway is empty. Barnes looks deflated as he flips the cigarette he found in his pocket between his fingers. He stares at the darkness, willing the figure to reappear. When nothing happens, he rounds on Clint. “Did you take any readings? Anything at all.”

Clint shakes his head and shoves his hands into his pocket. “No.”

Barnes glares at Clint in a steely look of disbelief and agitation. The look is almost as dark as the Edinburgh sky. Giving a shake of his head, he stalks into the inn. And, before the door closes, Clint could swear he hears him growl something under his breath that sounds like, “fucking useless.” . 


	3. the bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some heebie jeebies and some depictions of dead bodies/zombies and a gross monster. be warned.
> 
> thanks to [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/) for being my beta!

Clint sits in the window that night while Barnes occupies the bed. He can’t sleep. The fourth cup of coffee probably doesn’t help. Was it four? He’s lost count. He does know it’s the third time his eyes have drifted over to where Barnes is asleep just to watch the way his silver arm reflects in the moonlight.  _ Stop it. _ He chides with a roll of his eyes. But then he finds himself looking again. At least the seemingly permanent frown soothes when he’s asleep. Clint huffs. He’s not even sure what’s made Barnes hate him so much. 

When his view turns back towards the road, Clint watches where he had seen that figure. Something about the encounter had been so strange that his brain hadn’t even processed it fully until it was over. He just wants someone else to pass by—to see the same figure, to offer a cigarette—just to prove the whole thing hadn’t been his imagination. Very few people pass down this street after eight anyway, so he’s unlikely to see anyone. He watches his breath fog the window, that misty covering retreating as he considers bed or another cup of coffee. That damn sofa is so uncomfortable. 

As he resigns himself to a sleepless night, a figure stumbles up the street. Clint turns to watch with interest. Clearly drunk, someone who looks like a man sways as they attempt to conquer the incline. The fight makes Clint chuckle—he hates that incline when he’s sober—but he stops when the light in the alleyway clicks off. The figure appears, then. Even from across the street Clint can see it has the gentle sway it had when he had seen it. The drunk figure approaches, and sure enough, holds out a cigarette. But the figure in the alleyway doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out for the proffered vice. When the figure doesn’t move, the drunk steps closer, waving the small stick towards it again in an attempt to get it to take the offering. The flat voice echoes in Clint’s head.  _ Can I have a cigarette? _ That all too familiar chill runs down his spine and he cringes, rolling his shoulders to try and shake it off, but it holds onto his neck like an invisible hand.  _ That hand. _ Clint’s mind flashes to the photograph of the ghostly hand coming out from between the buildings. 

He focuses back in on the two people in the street. Pulling out Barnes’ scope, he focuses in on the one he’s sure counts as a paranormal encounter. Clint moves the scope up and down, trying to get a good read on what it’s wearing. That’s when he notices. The figure isn’t quite touching the ground. Like a limp ragdoll, the body sways back and forth, mouth unmoving though it asks, never reaching out for the requested item. 

And as he watches, the figure bends in half suddenly, reeled back into the alleyway and the darkness. The drunk sways for a moment at the entrance of the alley, clearly confused by the disappearance. They stumble forward and Clint’s heart races with the impending danger.  _ Don’t. _ One step closer. One step closer. And then, just as they hit the edge of the shadowy brick, they too bend in half and are sucked into the darkness. The light flickers back on. 

Clint runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know what is in that darkness but he’s certain that person is no longer alive. Or soon won’t be. Waffling between decisions for just half a second, Clint jumps up from the window and grabs his quiver, dashing from the room without bothering with the blasted door. 

The street is frigid as Clint runs into the night. The fog sends a wet chill through him as he runs across the cobblestone and into the alleyway without hesitation. He’s on a mission now and if he can save that stranger, he’ll have done a good job. The light flicks off as Clint crosses the barrier of deeper shadow. 

He slows as the night gets blacker between the two buildings. On second thought, he probably should have woken up Barnes. Clint pulls out the spirit box as he walks, the loud flicking passing through stations helping to distract from the imminent danger as his eyes scan for the man who was pulled in. “My name is Cli- wait. Ron. Eh, screw it. My name is Clint. Barton. Clint Barton. And if there’s someone in here with me, you can use this box to talk to me.” The box just garbles without any clear words coming back as he keeps walking. When he reaches the stairs, the box stops altogether. “Stupid-” He bangs the spirit box against his thigh but nothing happens. Tucking it back in his pocket, Clint looks up the stairs. “Something weird is happening here.” He mutters. And then, Clint begins to climb.

The staircase is rickety. His foot goes through the third stair altogether and Clint swears under his breath. He isn’t sure what will be at the top of the stairs. And, if he’s honest, he might be a little scared to find out. Pulling out his bow, Clint readies an arrow, just in case what he meets is corporeal. This was dumb. _ It’s fine. _ “Everything’s going to be fine.” 

Clint reaches the end of the staircase and finds himself in front of a door. He looks side to side as the staircase seems to sway. Clearing his throat, he knocks. “Room service.” He calls out, wincing as he says it. 

The door swings open silently. 

Inside is pitch black. Pulling out a different arrow, Clint shoots a flare into the room. What he’s met with is a scene worse than he could have imagined. Bodies, clammy and still, line the room. They hang on harnesses in the room, swinging with a breeze Clint can’t identify. “What the…” 

As he steps inside, the spirit box clicks back on, flipping through the channels. A garbled voice beeps over the channels. “Clint. Leave.”

Clint looks down at the box with wide eyes. That doesn’t usually work. Two syllables or more is supposed to mean it’s not just a mistake. A chill runs down his spine at the borrowed voice. This is bad. He clicks off the spirit box to stop the endless shuffling before taking another step into the room. The floor creaks underneath him and he stops dead when he sees the eyes of the body ahead of him shoot open wide.

The heads turn towards Clint like dominos. The one on the end unhooks itself from the harness and drops to the floor with a sickening squish. Clint raises his bow. “Shhh… rockabye baby on the rooftop..” But the body slides towards Clint in a syrupy trail. 

The flurry that happens next is surprising, to say the least. As he watches the one body, Clint forgets about the rest, but soon has clammy hands all over him. He fires off shots to drive them back, hits bodies with the end of his bow in a dull thud, flips out from the masses and launches himself into the rafters for better angles. He gives a flick to his hearing aids so he doesn’t keep hearing the slurping, wet sounds of the bodies as they fall unmoving onto the wood floor. They’re never ending, these corpses of unsuspecting people sucked in by something much more deadly. Something that killed them and made puppets of their bodies. The thought makes Clint’s stomach churn but at this point, he has to focus and stay alive. 

By the time Barnes arrives, his eyes wide as he looks side to side at the bodies and the blood covering Clint, all Clint can do is narrow his eyes. Panting, bow in hand, shirt ripped, he smirks and turns his hearing aid up. “You’re late.”

“I… what happened?” Barnes can’t stop looking at Clint. There’s a mix of admiration and worry and fury. Probably mostly fury but Clint wants to focus on what else is there because Barnes looks hot in tactical gear. Ah, that would have been good. Clint looks down at his t-shirt and shrugs. He straightens, wincing at a pain in his lower back. 

“I know. I make it look easy.” Clint can’t take his eyes off Barnes; he won’t be the first to break the eye contact that’s happening right now. 

Barnes rolls his eyes. “You’re sloppy.”

“Hey. I prefer messy.” Clint points his bow at Barnes. “How about a reward for solving the mystery? Because I’m definitely taking the credit for this.”

“I think you mean the blame.” Barnes chuckles as he shakes his head. He kneels down by one of the corpses and reaches out to touch it briefly. “You killed everything in here. Now we’ll never know what happened.”

Clint huffs, pushing his hair back from his face. “You’re a killjoy. You know that?”

“Been told that before.” Barnes stands and brushes his hand on his pant leg. He further assesses the scene. There are thirteen bodies laying on the floor. All look the same in similar plain clothing. They’ll have to call in a clean up crew for this one. Too many bodies to leave it to be found. 

“You going to give me a grade or something?” Clint asks in annoyance. 

Barnes meets Clint’s eyes with a glimmer of amusement. “C plus.”

Clint shrugs and picks one of his arrows out of a body but decides better when it comes way slimy and drops it. “That’s passing.”

“Is that what you aim for? Passing?”

“Better than dead.” Clint looks up at Barnes with a raised eyebrow. 

Barnes doesn’t argue a further point. “Did you -” Before Barnes can finish his sentence, a fishy smell fills the room to the point of making him gag. 

Clint’s eyes water. “I told you not to order the sushi, Barnes.”

“Shut up.” Barnes pulls his mask up over his mouth and suddenly Clint realizes why people call him a racoon. Looking around, he makes a hand motion for Clint to move across the room. The two silently move over the bodies and through the room on opposite sides with weapons drawn. The smell intensifies as they move in the darkness. As they near the back of the building, Clint realizes where the breeze was coming from. The back wall has a large hole in the brick. 

Clint walks through a cold spot. He turns to tell Barnes to stop but one more step forward and a ghostly hand shoots through the opening. Barnes’ body folds in half like Clint had seen the others do as he’s sucked through the hole. “No!” Clint rushes forward, leaping through the hole in the brick only to find himself on a wobbly crossbeam. This night keeps getting worse. Steadying himself, Clint doesn’t look down. Except he doesn’t see the body of Barnes. There’s a wet slurping sound below him, a shout that sounds an awful lot like the hot raccoon agent, and Clint sighs. 

When he looks down, his eyes widen. Below him, wedged between buildings, is a large translucent being with extremely long arms. The texture along the body looks somewhat like scales. In one ghostly hand is Barnes,  and he’s being ushered towards a pucker-like mouth. Clint fires off an arrow at the creature but the shaft passes right through and ricochets off the wall behind it. He didn’t really read the brief but he’s pretty sure taking out giant ghostly fish things was not part of the reconnaissance mission to gather information on a story of a drunk guy from 2012. That lady owes him at least a pizza. Barnes fires off a shot but the bullet passes right through and lodges in the brick of the building behind the being.

At this point, all he knows is that he has to save Barnes. Clint looks around for an idea. If arrows aren’t going to work, he’s got to innovate. What gets rid of ghosts? Then it clicks. One time, on a different mission, wind got rid of some ghosts. Grabbing his quiver from his back, Clint starts to look through the arrows he has. There was a whirlwind arrow in here somewhere. He should have ordered more before this mission. When he comes up empty, Clint rubs his forehead but pulls his hand away when it’s wet. A dark color comes away on his fingertips. He rubs his fingers together a moment before wiping them on his pants.  _ It’s fine. I’m not dead _ . 

If the thing is holding Barnes, it’s got to have some kind of form. They just need the right thing to hit it. Without a whirlwind arrow, he’s got nothing to create wind. Clint studies the being for a moment and sees frost forming on the backside of the spectre. He can freeze the thing. That’ll work. Clint grabs an icy arrow and slings his quiver back over his shoulder. 

Then he bolts.

Running across the beams quickly enough that they can’t give way under him, Clint drops down through the maze of crisscrossed wood until he’s level with Barnes. He sprints towards the metal armed agent and body slams him. The two of them launch out of the hand and into another set of stairs. Clint winces but stands up immediately and dashes towards the being. “Get out of here!” He yells at Barnes, who he’s pretty sure yells back at him but he’s not listening. Deftly pushing from a nearby beam, Clint leaps towards the mouth. The pucker stretches out towards him and opens in a swirling circular motion that makes him cringe. Clint activates the arrow and holds his arm out to be swallowed. 

What happens next Clint half wishes he could catch on film. As the arrow explodes in the mouth of the giant fishlike spectre, the being stills. Frost spreads rapidly through the interior of the translucent creature, solidifying it from the inside out with small intricate patterns that lay underneath the scales in a sort of lacey way. Clint’s whole body is cold from the explosion and he yanks his arm from the beast, falling onto a crossbeam and barely catching himself with a knee hooked around the wood. The being staggers, slows, stops moving as it freezes in place as the newest ice sculpture in Edinburgh. 

“Are you alive?” Barnes shouts from the ground. 

“No.” Clint calls back as he hangs upside down. He has to get back to the ground eventually but he just doesn’t have the energy to move. Not yet. A chill runs through his body and this time it isn’t that haunting feeling. Clint closes his eyes, just for a moment, shivering against the cold and fog. All he needs is to rest his eyes for a moment and he’ll swing down gracefully to Barnes and be so impressive that all he’ll want to do is kiss Clint. 

From the ground, Bucky watches as Clint’s body goes limp and falls from three stories up. 


	4. the aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/) for being my beta!!

Clint wakes up with Barnes hovering above him. Every bit of him hurts as he pushes himself to sit up. “Take it easy.” Barnes instructs quietly. “Took quite a fall.”

“I’m fine. Not dead.” But he winces and coughs, holding his ribs. Probably broken. 

“Okay, cool, but that’s not the threshold for fine.” Barnes keeps a firm hand on Clint’s chest. 

“Why is your arm metal?” Clint’s been wanting to ask for days. He looks down at the plated hand on his chest and touches the spaces where the metal moves. 

Barnes looks at his arm but doesn’t move. “Nasty fight with a vampire.”

“Ha. You’re a liar, Jim.” Clint smiles weakly as he looks up at Barnes. He shakes with the effort of trying to stay in a sitting position so he lays back on the cold concrete and closes his eyes. “Imma take a nap.”

The faintest flick of a smile crosses Barnes’ lips. “Not here. Let’s get back to the room.”

Clint waves a hand. “Nah.” But Barnes is sliding his arms under Clint’s knees and back, lifting him gingerly from the ground. “Jeepers mister, you’re really strong.”

With a slight chuckle, Barnes just shakes his head and carries Clint out of the alleyway, across the street, and into the Cock and Bull. 

“There’s lotsa stairs. Jus’ leave me at the bar.” 

“I don’t mind stairs as much as you do.” Barnes retorts as he begins to climb up to their room. He kicks the door open and lays his companion on the bed. 

Clint blinks his eyes open and looks around, patting the space around him. “Wow, this bed is nice. No wonder you make me sleep on the couch.”

“Are you ever not snarky?”

“No. I’m an asshole.” Clint peeks an eye open with a cheeky smile. But it falls as he sees Bucky pull out their extensive first aid kit. “I’m fine.” He insists, a furrow forming between his eyes. “I don’t need medical attention.”

“You’re not fine, Clint.” Barnes holds up a vial of anesthetic to the light. 

“Don’t.” The word is sharp. 

That gets Barnes’ attention. “Don’t what?”

Clint shakes his head. “Don’t give me that.”

“You need stitches. This will help with the pain.”

Shaking his head again, Clint hisses. “Don’t want it.”

Barnes sighs and puts the vial back in the kit. “Barton, you have to let me get things cleaned and stitched up. We don’t know if those corpses were infected. And I’m pretty sure frostbite is threatening your hand. You can’t shoot a bow if you don’t have a hand.”

Clint bites back a “watch me” and holds out his arm instead. “Fine. Do what you need to do.” 

Barnes takes out the suture kit. Wiping down the torn skin on his arm first, he gets to work stitching up Clint. The skin is scratched and bloody, but Barnes is gentle in wiping away the dirt and grime so he doesn’t cause pain, though as he works, Clint doesn’t flinch. When the most pressing wounds are taken care of, Barnes touches the

tatters of Clint’s clothing. “You might want to take off your shirt and get another one. This one isn’t providing much warmth.” 

“You going to tell me your name before you try and get me naked?” Clint teases, not making a move to take off his clothing. 

Barnes raises an eyebrow. Then, leveling Clint with a steely gaze, a smile forms. “Bucky. I go by Bucky.”

“Bucky. That’s hot.” Clint strips his shirt off then. He shivers and winces. That damn cold feels like it’s sunk into his bones. 

Bucky’s eyes linger on Clint’s abs before moving but he gets stuck on the shoulders. Blinking hard, he looks away. “Uh, sure, thanks.” On second thought, he grabs a blanket from the end of the bed. “Here, you need to stay warm.”

Clint smiles at the attention. “Could think of some other ways to warm me up.” 

“No alcohol. But we could get coffee or something.” Bucky pushes himself up from the edge of the bed to make a pot of coffee. 

Sighing, Clint leans back in the pillows. “Coffee’s my favorite.”

“I know.” Bucky murmurs as he moves through the actions of putting in grounds and getting things prepared. “I had to go get more from the front desk. This isn’t even good stuff.” He turns to look at Clint pointedly and holds up the bag. “This is bad coffee.”

Clint shrugs a shoulder. “It’s still coffee.”

Bucky leans his hips against the counter as he waits for the pot to finish. His eyes seem to hold a darkness in them as he watches Clint. “You shouldn’t have gone by yourself.” He says finally. 

“Hey, why are you talking so much?” Clint counters with narrowed eyes. “You haven’t said this many words to anyone in the last three days.”

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed.” Bucky continues. 

“Didn’t.” Clint shoots him a fingergun with a wink. 

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Not fun.” The reply is simple but Clint means it. When he takes things too seriously, life gets messy. 

Bucky sighs in quiet frustration and falls silent, though his eyes remain on Clint until the coffee is done. He turns and pours a cup. His hand reaches for a cream before hesitating and dropping the pod back in the basket. Clint licks his lips to keep from smiling. “Black, right?” Bucky asks as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed again to hand Clint the warm cup.

“Aw, you remembered. I  _ am _ on your fuck list.”

This time, Bucky doesn’t roll his eyes. If Clint were crazier, he’d think there was tension. Wait. He blinks quickly, afraid to let this drop in case he’s actually reading this right. Bucky places a hand on Clint’s thigh and gives a squeeze. Forgetting about any injury and pain his body might be in, Clint surges forward to kiss Bucky suddenly. Bucky wraps a hand around Clint’s head to hold onto him as he kisses him back. Clint melts against him. The release of tension is perfection as his mouth moves against Bucky’s.

When Bucky’s hand relaxes and he pulls back, Clint moans. “You’re too injured for this.” He kisses Clint softly once more, twice more. 

“No pain, no gain.” Clint grins against his lips. His hands are fisted in Bucky’s shirt. No way is he letting go now. Not when Bucky is so close. 

Bucky chuckles and nips at Clint’s lip. “I have a policy of not fucking bleeding people.” 

“Aw c’mon. A little blood can be fun.” 

“No, Barton.” Bucky pushes at Clint’s chest to make him lay down again. There’s an easier tone in his voice after the kiss and the way he’s looking at Clint makes him dizzy. Oh, actually maybe he’s dizzy from everything else. Clint lays back against the pillows as his vision starts to swim. “It’s going to take a few more days to get this all cleaned up.” He knows what that means. A few more days together. Anything can happen in a few days. 

A pain-drunk smile flashes across Clint’s face. “Can I sleep in the bed tonight?”

Bucky nods and pats his leg. “Sure.”

“Can I have a kiss goodnight?” He knows it’s pushing what just happened but he can’t help it. For the amount of times he’s thought about kissing Bucky this week, he’s going to get as many as he can. Clint’s fading fast now, though, between the cold and the pain and the adrenaline from the kiss that took the last of his energy. 

“No.” Bucky says, but leans down to kiss him anyway.


End file.
